


weak

by ZainClaw



Series: the worst I could be [1]
Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Nightmares, PTSD, Seed brothers feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 18:25:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15176666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZainClaw/pseuds/ZainClaw
Summary: He slumps back on the bed, chest still heaving. He can feel the shirt sticking to his skin, sweat beading all over his scalp, and he kicks at the blankets to get some relief. He swallows, throat feeling tight and sore. And not because he's been exposed to teargas, but because he's been screaming. His eyes are burning because he's been crying, cheeks still wet.Shame sets in, and Jacob grits his teeth inside his mouth as he drapes an arm over his face in a pointless attempt to hide from it.





	weak

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to write a drabble about Jacob and his insomnia, because I needed an outlet for my own PTSD, but now I'm turning it into a series. This is the first part - Jacob's part - and there'll be one for each Seed. Just a bunch of feels and headcanons for the Seed brothers, basically.
> 
> Also posted on my [tumblr](http://zainclaw.tumblr.com/post/175579400954). Come say hi!

 

Jacob wakes with a start, gasping for air as his hands clutch at the bedding beneath him. His eyes are burning, lungs hurting, as if he's still running through the cloud of smoke. His ears are ringing with the sound left by the grenade, throwing his whole world off balance. His heart is racing, eyes wide as he takes in his surroundings.

It doesn't take long to realize where he is, and where he's not. It never does.

He slumps back on the bed, chest still heaving. He can feel the shirt sticking to his skin, sweat beading all over his scalp, and he kicks at the blankets to get some relief. He swallows, throat feeling tight and sore. And not because he's been exposed to teargas, but because he's been screaming. His eyes are burning because he's been crying, cheeks still wet.

 _Shame_ sets in, and Jacob grits his teeth inside his mouth as he drapes an arm over his face in a pointless attempt to hide from it.

There are nights when he can't sleep at all, when he'll toss and turn for hours until the soft mattress doesn't feel comfortable anymore. He drives himself crazy those nights, eventually getting up to do something productive rather than waste away hours in bed. Usually he takes to cleaning his weapons, or going for a walk around the compound. Checking in on the prisoners, his judges. Sometimes he's able to catch a few hours rest before sunrise, sometimes not.

But regardless of the lack of sleep on those nights, leaving his body weak and heavy come morning, he still prefers it over the nightmares.

Some of them are the same, identical to the memories they're drawn from, while others just use bits and pieces of reality. Sometimes he's falling, gun and parachute on his back, reliving the fear of getting separated from his squad every goddamn time he jumped out of an airplane. Sometimes he's wandering through the endless desert, wolves howling all too close. Sometimes he's cowering in a corner, Old Man Seed standing over him with a belt in hand.

Sometimes it's just Miller's face frozen in fear and disbelief.

Fire. There's _always_ fire; biting his skin. More often than not he wakes up patting his arms as if to put the flames out. Sometimes there's an itch under his skin, and he wakes up clawing at his forearms with bitten down fingernails. Drawing blood, just wanting the pain to stop. He has to take a cold shower for the feeling to go away, and even that brings back memories.

His men know. Of course they do.

Back when they first took this place, making it their base of operations in the mountains, it only took a couple days before Jacob jolted awake one night to find two of his guys leaning over him in bed.

Just like the nurses back at the hospital, who'd heard his screams cut through the night and only wanted to help, they'd tried to wake him. Tried to relieve him from his horrors. And all they got in return was a punch to the face, or somewhere lower if they were lucky.

Jacob never blamed them for wanting him out of there, nor the people at the homeless shelter where he ended up after. He was a broken man, still howling in pain even after his ugly wounds had healed. He was a burden—a _danger_ , some might argue. In a lot ways he felt like a ticking bomb.

 _Trauma_ , a doctor's voice whispers at the back of his head. _It's trauma, and you need to deal with it_.

 _No_ , Jacob wants to scream back. _Just let me forget_.

Since that first incident, when he'd given one of his own guards a black eye, no one comes running to wake him up from his bad dreams anymore. Jacob doesn't want to guess what the men are thinking, what they tell the new recruits.

Pratt knows, too. A couple days after the deputy got moved into the house, Jacob had woken up one morning with the familiar soreness in his throat, and he'd felt Pratt's eyes on him all during breakfast. He'd ignored it, escaping into the woods to hunt down the first thing that came across his path. Pratt never talked about it, of course. He wouldn't dare to, and that's how Jacob likes it.

Once his erratic breathing has calmed down some, his heart slowing down to a steadier beat, Jacob sits up with a grunt. His bare feet touch the cool floor, elbows resting on his knees as he holds his head in his hands. The shirt is still sticking to his back, so he takes it off. Throws it on the bed next to him before getting up, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

The nights are warm, even up here in the mountains, but he still puts on some pants before heading out on the balcony. His rifle is leaning against the wall next to the double doors, always ready. Jacob lets his fingers slide along the long barrel as he walks past, the familiarity of it reassuring.

 _Safe_ , he tells himself, a mantra inside his head. _Safe. I am safe_.

It's why he'd picked the old veteran center, why he'd picked the third floor for himself. He'd wanted sight, he'd wanted security, he'd wanted control. The upper floor is the perfect sniper spot towards the front of the building, while the tall mountains make it difficult to ambush from the back. The surrounding stone fences are tall, guards patrolling around the clock. And there are no better guard dogs than his judges.

Jacob leans forward, resting his sleeves on the railing. The fresh air is nice, clearing his head a little. He looks down at the yard below, some of his men talking in hushed voices down on the porch while switching shifts, but other than that it's quiet. During the day the place is a lot more lively, people laughing and hollering as they play cards, arrange fist fights, or tell each other stories over a hot meal. Typical military shit.

He looks further, looks out over the valley in the distance. It's too foggy to see much, but it's enough to know that somewhere down there, not too far away, are his brothers. It's enough to easen some of the anxiety still raging within him, enough to breathe a little easier.

When he and Miller were lost in that desert, walking for days and days, Jacob had thought about his brothers a lot. He'd struggled to remember their faces, even as young as they were last time he'd seen them. The guys in his squad all had pictures in their wallets—wives, pregnant girlfriends, kids, parents, big family photos.

Jacob didn't have anything.

He had nothing to remember his brothers by, other than his own fading memories. And he'd held on to them with everything he had, refusing to forget baby John's chubby cheeks or Joseph's long, messy hair. Despite all the years apart, he never considered anyone but his two brothers his family. Not the friends he made in juvie, or in the army. He'd held on to that bleak picture of his baby brothers he hadn't seen for years, and it's what kept him going. What kept him alive.

There are photos now. Joseph had made sure of that. None of which Jacob would keep in his wallet, but it still means something. That they exist. That they have something worth calling a family photo.

A _longing_ erupts in his chest, and Jacob swallows around the lingering discomfort in his throat. He pushes himself off the railing, heading back inside his dark room. Rounding the table, he catches a glimpse of his reflection on a shiny surface, and quickly looks away.

While Joseph and John had gotten their mother's hair, Jacob got their father's. As a kid he used to think it was unfair, and as he got older he'd started hating it. Because the older he got, the more he looked like their old man. He knows exactly what he'd look like now, if he let his hair grow out.

So he doesn't. He kept his head shaved all through his time in the military, and is still determined on not letting it grow back out fully. But despite his efforts, he still sees his father whenever he looks into a mirror. Sometimes he wonders if Joseph does, too. He prays John doesn't remember the man.

Jacob picks up the hand radio from the table.

Joseph is probably sleeping. He never had problems with it, even as a kid. It was little John who used to tug at Jacob's sleeve at night, asking to sleep in Jacob's bed whenever he got scared. And even after reuniting as adults, getting to know one another all over again, Jacob knows John still struggles with it. Knows that there is a big possibility of him being awake right now, with the radio within hearing distance.

Jacob lifts the radio to his chin, lips parting as his thumb presses down on the button. There's a blip of static, then silence. John's name is on the tip of his tongue, but nothing comes out.

What is he supposed to say? What is he supposed to tell John in the dead of night? That he misses him? That he's worried about him, even now? That he had a bad dream?

He's supposed to be _strong_ one. The one supposed to look after his brothers, and not the other way around. John expects his big brother to be strong, to not cry in his sleep like a scared little child.

 _Weak_ , hisses a voice that sounds an awful lot like his father's at the back of his mind. After a whole life, he still remembers what the man sounded like. Remembers how his breath used to stink of alcohol whenever we got right up in your face. _Weak_. _You are weak_.

Jacob releases the button.

He puts the radio back down with too much force, gripping the edge of the table with both hands. He clenches his teeth together, feeling the burn behind his eyes, and he _hates_ it. He snarls, frustrated, and slams a fist on the table before stepping away.

He will _not_ be weak. He will be  _strong_. He has to be. For John. For Joseph. It's all that mattered then, and it's all that matters now.

He'll deal with this moment of weakness alone, just like he always has. He'll sit with his rifle in the dark and wait for dawn to come.


End file.
